by Rich Wulf
Tristam looked at Dalan, rising from his crouch and leaning back against the door. He shook out the twig, sucking his fingers and wincing. “You think Marth is behind this?” Tristam said.
“Clearly,” Dalan said, surprised that Tristam had not arrived at the same conclusion. “Marth must have had a spy watching the homes of his soldiers here. Upon our arrival, that spy summoned the city guard to detain us on a technicality until his master arrives.”
“We don’t have much time, then,” Tristam said, looking at the door again. He ran his hands over the metal, searching for any flaw, any weakness. He lit another tindertwig and glanced around, eyes widening as he noticed a discarded lantern under one of the rough cots.
“I wouldn’t bother, Tristam,” Dalan said. “This is Cyran architecture. Even with your magic, you’d be hard pressed to escape. The doors are likely warded.”
“I won’t wait here and die, Dalan,” Tristam said. “Seren, how are you doing?”
“Doing fine,” Seren replied. “I feel like I’m back in Wroat. I miss Warden Thomas, though.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Tristam whispered harshly. He tinkered with the lantern, twisting out enough wick to set it alight. “I mean can you find a way out?” He was quiet a moment, reflecting. “Wait. You were on first terms with the Wroat prison warden?”
“Don’t be jealous, Gorbus,” she teased.
“You should relax,” Dalan said. “Be more like Seren. As crises go, this is relatively minor.”
Tristam rolled his eyes at Dalan and returned his attention to the thick metal door. He peered closely at the lock, studying the tumblers inside.
“If anything, we should utilize this opportunity to assess the information we’ve gathered thus far,” Dalan continued. “We need to plan our next move. That was a clever move, Seren, taking those speaker posts.”
“How is poetry going to help us?” Tristam asked. He looked into the lantern’s sputtering light, his expression thoughtful and distant.
“Like all dragonmarked craftsmen, the speakers of House Sivis are proud of their trade,” Dalan said. “Their original posts all bear certain numerical codes, printed discreetly in the corner of the page. These codes verify their authenticity and also indicate their point of origin. For that reason, most spies learn to swiftly copy and destroy their original speaker posts so that they will not be traced to their point of origin. Taria Marcho, it seems, would make a poor spy.”
Tristam looked up at Dalan. “You mean that we can use Devyn’s letters to his mother to find out where he’s been?” he asked.
“Possibly,” Dalan said. “As Marth’s helmsman, most of those points of origin would mean little. Presumably he spent a great deal of time flying the Seventh Moon. But if we can discern a recurring location we can perhaps determine where Marth is stationing his soldiers. Zed can decipher the codes when we return to Karia Naille, and from there we can determine where to go next.”
Tristam fell silent, staring into the lantern again. He turned and sat with his back against the door. “No,” he said.
“No?” Dalan asked archly. “You have a better suggestion?”
“It all makes sense now,” he said. “I know how Ashrem did it.”
“Did what?” Dalan asked. “What are you talking about?”
Tristam looked up at Dalan, eyes intense. “I know how he carried the Dragon’s Eye out of Zul’nadn. How do you carry fire, Dalan?”
“Enlighten me,” Dalan said.
Tristam held up the gleaming lantern.
Dalan looked confused. “Ashrem put an elemental manifest zone in a lantern?”
“So to speak,” Tristam said. “I think he used Dying Sun’s elemental containment housing. Airship cores are already enchanted to prevent elementals from returning to their home plane. Why couldn’t one be modified to do the same thing to part of the Dragon’s Eye? He used the heart of his own ship to fuel the Legacy.”
“Incredible,” Dalan said. “Are you certain this is even possible, Tristam?”
“I can’t think of any other way he could have done it,” Tristam said. He pondered silently for a long moment before speaking again. “There’s only one way to be sure. We need to find the Dying Sun. If her elemental core has survived, we have to destroy it. Otherwise Marth might find use it to stabilize his Legacy.”
“Impossible,” Dalan said. “Dying Sun crashed in the Mournland. She could be anywhere. We could search for a lifetime and never find her.”
“But we already know where she is,” Tristam said. “Ashrem was headed for Metrol, the Cyran capital. He took Kiris Overwood with him. Obviously the Sun caught up with him before the Day of Mourning began, because Marth rescued Kiris and flew back out in Dalan’s ship. Dying Sun has to be in Metrol.”
“Hardly a comforting distinction, Tristam,” Dalan said. “Do you realize how large a city Metrol was?”
“We have to start somewhere,” Tristam said.
The sound of a heavy thump from the end of the hall ended the conversation. It was the sound of a body hitting a stone floor.
“Zed?” he called out. “Ijaac? Omax, is that you?”
There was no reply. As he stared into the door’s lock, he imagined he saw the tumblers slowly move. A heavy tick echoed inside the mechanism. Tristam jumped as the door creaked slowly open. A thin figure darted into the room and threw Tristam back against the wall, forcing him to gasp in surprise. Shaimin d’Thuranni’s cold blue eyes stared into Tristam’s. The artificer felt a chill of metal as a thin blade pressed against his throat.
“Shaimin, don’t do this now,” Dalan said urgently. “There is more at stake here than your reputation. We need Tristam.”
“There is nothing of greater significance, d’Cannith,” Shaimin said, though he stayed his hand. “If you can give me a reason to spare the boy’s life, speak quickly.”
A metal click from behind drew the elf’s attention. He cocked one eyebrow and peered over his shoulder. Seren stood in the doorway, aiming a guardsman’s crossbow at the assassin’s back.
“Drop the knife,” she said.
“That seems reason enough,” Dalan said.
Shaimin looked back at her with a crooked smile.
“Thuranni,” Dalan whispered. “Don’t. Some things are more important than pride. I know you already have your doubts.”
“You cannot manipulate me, Dalan,” the elf said. He held his knife steady, his eyes locked on Seren’s.
“Then consider this reality,” Dalan said. “Kill Tristam first and Seren will bury a bolt in your heart. Kill Seren first and you will give Tristam a chance to call upon his magic, surrendering your advantage of surprise. How will your reputation fare when your family learns that you died at the hands of one of these children? Put your knife down.”
“As you say,” Shaimin said, still smiling at Seren. He let the knife fall to the floor and stepped away, hands spread loosely to his sides, as if beckoning the girl to shoot him. “I did not expect to find Xain here anyway. The opportunity will come again.”
Seren’s face darkened. Her finger tightened around the trigger. Shaimin’s eyes gleamed.
“Seren, don’t,” Dalan warned. “Lower the crossbow.”
“Dalan, you know this assassin?” Tristam asked angrily.
“I’m negotiating,” Dalan said. “If Seren does not cease threatening Master d’Thuranni, this negotiation will take a negative turn.”
Seren frowned and lowered the crossbow, setting it gently on the floor.
“Make a right out of this cell and you will find your possessions in a closet at the end of the hall on the left,” Shaimin said. “The guards will not interfere with your escape.”
“Did you kill them?” Seren asked.
“I don’t work for free,” Shaimin said. “Not unless the target intrigues me.” He leered. “They guards are unconscious and will remain so long enough for you to depart and make haste back to your airship.” He reached into the pouch at his belt, drawing
out a thin envelope and tossing it into Dalan’s lap. “The information you requested, d’Cannith.” With a florid bow, Shaimin snatched up his dagger, tucked it into his belt, and darted out of the cell. “Another time, Xain.”
Seren looked at Dalan, her face red with anger. Tristam grabbed her arm gently. “Not now, Seren,” he said. “We need to get out of here. Dalan, when we get back to the ship you have a lot of explaining to do.”
“Naturally,” Dalan replied, tucking the envelope into his vest.
The trio rushed out of the cell, stopping long enough to take their gear from the closet and equip themselves again. Tristam ran to the door, warily peering out at the street. A patrol of watchmen were picking their way through the noonday crowd toward the jail, in no particular hurry.
“Be casual,” Seren said, pushing past him and walking out into the street. “None of those guards have seen us before. They don’t know we’re prisoners. Don’t run. Don’t give them a reason to chase.”
Dalan and Tristam followed Seren, moving down the street in a close group. The guard patrol paid them no mind, continuing their slow path toward the jail. They rounded a corner onto a more sparsely populated street. A patrol of six mounted guardsmen trotted toward them from the other end of the street.
“Same as before,” Seren said. “Just try to walk past.”
They walked in a loosely knit group, casting only casual looks toward the soldiers. Tristam felt a sense of unease as the Cyrans drew closer.
When they were only forty feet away, he noticed the amethyst wand tucked under the leader’s belt.
“Get down!” Tristam shouted, drawing his own wand and unleashing a cone of brilliant white lightning at the soldiers just as they began to aim their crossbows.
The lightning scattered the soldiers, blasting them from their horses. The townspeople screamed and scattered. The leader scowled as the magical energy washed around him, crackling off an invisible shield. Lightning burned his horse from beneath him, forcing him to leap to the street. He let his disguise fade, resuming his original form as he rose. Dalan swore and ducked behind a stack of rain barrels. Seren drew her stolen crossbow, eyes wide with fear.
“No tricks, Xain?” Marth asked calmly. “No desperate escape? No friend to save you?”
“Seren, get away,” Tristam whispered. “Take Dalan and run.”
“He’ll kill you, Tristam,” she answered.
“Do it!” he snapped. “Get out of here!”
“Yes, Miss Morisse,” Marth said. “Please begone.” He swept his wand in a broad arc, unleashing a volley of roaring flame toward Seren. She rolled backward as the blast exploded at her feet, hurling her against the wall of a church.
Tristam swore and blasted his wand at Marth again. The changeling’s shield wavered but held. Marth’s laugh died as Tristam leapt through the brilliant distraction, drawing his sword and slashing downward. Marth ducked to one side, catching Tristam’s wrist from his awkward swing. He struck Tristam hard across the face, a flash of green light exploding from the butt of his wand. Tristam staggered backward, sword toppling from his hand.
Marth caught Tristam’s sword easily and advanced. He slashed the air, leaving a trail of red across the boy’s chest as Tristam dodged away. Tristam quickly drew a bottle from his coat and drank the contents, vanishing.
The changeling chuckled, peering around with a bemused expression. “Your skill has advanced since our last meeting,” Marth said. “It doesn’t matter if I cannot see you. You cannot touch me.” He whispered, and the air shimmered around him. Transparent, whirling blades surrounded Marth on all sides. “I need not strike you. I know where your weaknesses lie.” He aimed his wand toward the wall where Seren had fallen.
She was gone. He glanced around in irritation, only to see Dalan helping the injured girl limp away down the alley. He aimed his wand just as another cloud of smoke erupted, enveloping the alleyway and robbing Marth of his target. Images of Tristam Xain now stood on each side of Marth, both aiming their wands at the changeling.
“Arrogant,” Marth said. “You believe you can deceive me while you still carry my ring?” Without hesitation, Marth aimed at the one to his left, firing a blast of green flame. The illusion exploded in a cloud of sulfurous pink smoke, rolling over Marth and biting into his eyes.
Tristam ran as his illusion faded. He whispered a word of command and felt the infusions in boots activate, carrying him swiftly away. As he circled the end of the block, he found Dalan and Seren waiting for him.
“Seren, are you hurt?” he asked quickly.
“Just winded,” she said. “What about you?”
“Keep running,” he answered, pulling them along beside him.
“What happened to Marth?” Dalan asked.
“He found a rotten egg with a golden ring inside,” Tristam answered. He patted his hip. “I lost my sword.”
“We’ll find you an axe, lumberjack,” Seren said.
They ran through the gates of New Cyre. The bored guards looked up in confusion and returned to their dice game. Tristam drew a short tube from his coat and fired it into the air, leaving a trail of red smoke across the sky. Only seconds later a ring of blue flame rose from the southern cliffs and flew swiftly toward them. They kept running, keeping a sharp eye behind for any sign of pursuit. Tristam followed Seren and Dalan up the docking ladder. He watched the city until the bay hatches closed, his wand still clutched in one hand.
“What happened down there?” Ijaac asked. He glanced at them with a worried expression as he folded the ladder.
“Marth,” Tristam said.
“Captain Gerriman, get us out of here!” Dalan shouted. “Plot us a course due east.”
“Aye, Master d’Cannith,” the gnome replied. The airship banked and accelerated.
“That was quite the duel, Xain,” Dalan said, clapping Tristam on the shoulder. “I was impressed. I suspect the next time you meet with our Captain Marth that the outcome shall not be so—”
Dalan’s congratulations ended abruptly as Seren slapped Dalan across the face. She seized the guild master by the throat, pushing him against the wall and drawing her dagger.
“Well, that was unexpected,” Ijaac observed.
“Not really,” Tristam said in a tired voice.
“I hate crew drama,” Ijaac mumbled.
“This is an odd way to thank me for carrying you out of that alley, Miss Morisse,” Dalan said. He smiled through bloody lips and looked at the knife nervously.
“I warned you,” she hissed. “I told you what would happen if you hurt him again.” She pressed the knife against his stomach.
“Idiot girl, I have done everything to prevent Tristam from being harmed,” Dalan snapped, his voice now sharp and serious. “Now sheathe that blade before you do something all of us will regret.”
“Seren, please,” Tristam said. “Host knows I’ve wanted to kill Dalan a time or two but this isn’t the answer.”
“I’ll just go check if lunch is ready …” Ijaac said, quietly tiptoeing out of the hold.
Seren released Dalan and stepped back, sheathing her knife. “Talk,” she said. “Why did that assassin know your name?”
“Another shadow from my checkered past,” Dalan said. “Shaimin also knew Marth, and owes him a favor. This favor resulted in his current employment—the hunt of Tristam Xain. While you were away in the Frostfell, Shaimin came to me seeking an exchange of information.”
“What kind of information?” Tristam asked.
“The details are irrelevant,” Dalan said, glancing at Seren. “Suffice it to say that he is unhappy with his assignment. Shaimin may be a killer, but he is not part of Marth’s plans. Since I knew that you would not be returning from the Frostfell for some time, that left Shaimin with little to do. I hired him to come here and investigate in New Cyre.”
“You hired my assassin?” Tristam asked, shocked.
“Please, Tristam, don’t overreact,” Dalan said. “I didn’t hire Shaimin to
kill anyone. The Thuranni are spies as well as killers. He was instructed to investigate something on my behalf, and to free me when Marth’s pawns attempted to capture me.”
“You knew Tristam’s killer would be here and you didn’t warn us?” Seren asked.
Dalan looked very tired. “I did, in fact, warn Tristam,” he said. “You replied that Seren was more than adequate protection. Need I remind you that you were correct?”
Tristam felt foolish and angry at once. “Why didn’t you tell me that Shaimin spoke to you?” he asked finally.
“Why didn’t you tell me everything you saw in the Frostfell?” Dalan asked. “I know that you have concealed something that weighs heavily upon you. I don’t care. I trust you to use your discoveries wisely.”
Tristam didn’t say anything. Seren looked at him, worried.
“That’s different,” Tristam said finally. “There were things in Zul’nadn that none of you would understand.”
“It is no different at all,” Dalan said. “You know that, Tristam. Do not pretend your secrets are more justified than mine.”
Tristam leaned back against the bulkhead, rubbing his face with one hand. The rush of his duel against Marth was fading, leaving him exhausted. Dalan glanced from Seren to Tristam impatiently.
“I don’t know what to say,” Tristam said.
“And I told you, I don’t care,” Dalan said. “Whatever you learned in Zul’nadn does not matter to me so long as you use the knowledge wisely. I trust you to do so, Tristam. It merely galls me that you do not return the favor.”
Tristam looked up at the guild master soberly. “I’m sorry, Dalan,” he said.
“Apology accepted,” he said pertly. “Any more questions?”
“No,” Tristam said. Seren continued glaring at Dalan darkly.
“Then I’ll just excuse myself, if both of you are satisfied that I still deserve to live.”
